Five Stars
by R.C. McLachlan
Summary: "One more, for science." (Michiru/Haruka, mature)
"What about this one?"

Hidden by the plaits in her skirt, the fingers of her left hand curl into a fist, forcing back the tide that demands to be unleashed for the interruption. Instead, Michiru places the tiny jar of eyeshadow — in a beautiful shade called _canard_ — back into its little slot.

She turns to see the consultant, who must rely on commission because the girl hasn't let up since Michiru walked into the store, holding up yet another slim tube of lipstick.

Sighing, Michiru takes it delicately between her thumb and forefinger. "What makes this one better than the others?"

"This one is _just_ in," the consultant drops her voice conspiratorially, eyeing the checkout counter uneasily, but none of the other girls are paying them heed. "It's called _Endless_ , and it'll stay on all day, no smudging or budging."

"I have several lipsticks at home that have boasted the same, but they all flake or bleed before the day's done. Thank you for trying, but I'm still not planning to buy anything today."

She'd popped into HB Cosmetics while Setsuna waited in the checkout line at Daiei, because if there's anything Michiru hates more than the idea of what Hotaru's rapid aging signifies, it's queuing. When the consultant greeted her at the door and asked if she needed any help, Michiru had said she was there to simply browse, maybe check out some of their new liquid mattes, but had no intention of purchasing anything. And she really isn't going to. Haruka has repeatedly threatened to straight-up _murder_ her if she comes home with any more makeup.

The nail of her thumb brushes up against something on the lipstick tube and Michiru glances down to where the adhesive on the label apparently wasn't strong enough to hold it down. Or perhaps wasn't quality enough. The label itself lacks the seamlessness of other brands' and the feathered look of the font doesn't scream 'professional'. Even the name of the brand makes her pause.

"I've never heard of Kitty Star Makeup," Michiru muses.

A muscle jumps in the consultant's cheek before it's covered by bright bravado and a wide smile. "It's a, uh, new company. They haven't even, hit the, um, display cases yet. In fact, they asked us to give these out as samples."

"Did they?"

Bolstered by the polite interest, the consultant gives an enthusiastic nod. "Yep! I— _They_ want to prove that the lipstick will last through anything, so they're looking for honest reviews. They're a pretty small company, but their stuff is _amazing_."

Michiru tries and fails to fight down a smile, and she gives the lipstick in her hand another look. While the packaging isn't anything spectacular, what she can see of the color through the frosted plastic is lovely. Abalone pink.

She glances up, and the consultant straightens under her gaze, caught out and practically vibrating in place.

Once upon a time, Michiru was young and entirely comprised of hopes and plans, too. At one point, before her Awakening, before she met the stormy, startled gaze of a soldier with wind in her veins, she'd dreamt of opening a gallery by the sea, where her lungs would only know air that tasted of salt and the earthy scent of fresh paint.

And after having spent enough time forcing the pure hearts out of people, the least she can do is strengthen this one.

"If it's a free sample, then I'll definitely try it," Michiru promises, easily dodging the consultant's enthusiastic hug. "Where can I leave a review?"

Eyes brimming with grateful tears, the consultant reaches into her pocket and produces a little card. The name of the website isn't printed, but written in glitter pen. There's a drawing of a cat sitting on a star in the top left-hand corner.

"Thank you so much. I promise: this lipstick won't feather, bleed, flake, or smudge. Not even if you eat a million jaga bata! Not even if you… if you—" The consultant's voice trembles shyly, cheeks infused with pink, and under all the makeup she's wearing the consultant looks every bit the teenager she is. "—kiss someone."

Michiru slips both the card and the lipstick into her purse with a smile. "I suppose there's only one way to find out for sure."

 **/_\\\\_/_\\\\_/_\\\**

" _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ ," Haruka groans, high and fretful, back arching off the bed, and Michiru slings her forearm across the peaks of her hipbones and forces them back down.

This is her favorite part, when Haruka's cool facade breaks and renders her a quivering mess of long legs and sweat, completely at the mercy of Michiru's purposeful fingers and tongue. Everyone has a point when the pleasure rides the edge of pain and sensitive tips into torture. Haruka broke maybe half an hour ago, her grip on that ironclad control lost to the very wind she wields. Now, she's little more than meat, a husk that exists to do nothing except shudder through orgasm after orgasm and smear the evidence over Michiru's lips and cheeks.

"I can't. Michiru, I—I can't, I can't again. I don't have another one in me." It's dragged through the broken glass and smoke that lives at the bottom note of Haruka's vocal register and offered like the sweetest of pleas.

Slowing running the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, Michiru gathers the come there and pushes it into her mouth, savors the taste the way she would a blush wine, and then bends her head back down for more. Haruka's _dripping_ , the poor dear. She smears sticky, too-wet kisses over the inside of Haruka's thighs and smiles at the frantic throb of the pulse against her mouth, drags her nose and chin over it just to delight in the shiver that shatters over Haruka's skin.

"Michiru, I can't—"

"Not with that attitude," Michiru agrees, licking up the mess she's painted. She dips her head and gives Haruka's wet slit a perfunctory suck, delighting in the gasp that sounds like it's been punched out of her, before pulling back to take stock.

It takes a few tries for her fingers to find a grip, but they eventually manage to part Haruka's folds, baring her to the hot puffs of Michiru's breath. Haruka has, without a doubt, the prettiest cunt she's ever seen — going from a delicate rose to an almost painful red, the flesh puffing and shivering, shining in the light of the fading sun — and she smells as good as she tastes; deep and understated, groundwater that aches to move. Her clit is swollen and flushed a lovely pink, matching Haruka's dusty, abused nipples, which had come to attention swiftly under Michiru's fingers, her tongue, her teeth. She loves Haruka's breasts; they're so delightfully sensitive, just like the rest of her.

She runs her tongue over her bottom lip again, finding it almost dry, and then delves a finger into Haruka, who moans a little at the intrusion. Michiru remedies the situation by pulling her finger out and smearing everything gathered there over her mouth before slowly licking it off, thoughtful.

"Michiru—"

"You can give me one more," Michiru decides, then slides three fingers into Haruka's cunt without any resistance, dragging the pads of them up, and leaning down to suck at her labia. She's so wet, so hot, and she clenches around Michiru's fingers weakly.

"Shit," Haruka grits out. Michiru can hear her hands slam against the wrought iron bedframe and curl. " _Shit_."

Michiru hums against her, licks at the tiny bud of her urethra, then drags the tip of her tongue around the flesh stretched around her fingers. She presses against the rim, which flexes back against her, and Michiru can't help but giggle a little. Poor Haruka, whose tired, overwrought body wants to be left in peace. This is the hardest it's ever worked for Michiru, but even still, it wants to please her. It wants to give her what she wants.

"One more. For science," Michiru murmurs against Haruka's swollen clit before slipping it delicately between her lips and sucking leisurely.

"Oh my god, I hate you." Haruka's belly heaves under Michiru's other hand, dragging through a sheen of sweat to worry at her sensitive nipples, pulling and rolling at them without even a shred of mercy. "You're evil. You're the w-worst—"

Well, there's no need to impugn her honor. As punishment, she drags her fingers out and then shoves them back in while her tongue rubs at the little spot on the left side that always gets Haruka there.

Under her other hand, Haruka's body jerks as though taking a hit, and her cunt pulses around her fingers.

"Fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ —"

Michiru sucks at her clit until, finally, Haruka's hands — cramped and unsteady — push her away. She goes, humming cheerily, then slowly draws her fingers out of the warmth of Haruka's body. They're soaked, sticky, and there's a trickle of syrupy come sliding its way over the knuckle of her forefinger. She licks her fingers clean, wipes at her chin delicately, and then sits back to study the punched-out gasps that wrack Haruka's entire body.

Then it hits her. "Oh! I almost forgot."

She clambers over Haruka, who tiredly protests and tries to swipe at her as she goes, and reaches for the small compact mirror on the nightstand. Turning it toward the light, she studies her mouth, which curls into a moue of surprise.

"It really didn't smudge or budge. I'll be damned."

"Right to hell," Haruka agrees, dazed. "What is it?"

Michiru turns to flash her a perfectly painted smile. "A five-star review."

* * *

X-posted to AO3. Originally written on Tumblr.


End file.
